


Fade

by jenefur



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mild Implication of Torture, Mild Implication of Violence, Nothing Specifically Described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenefur/pseuds/jenefur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does it hurt?</p>
<p>A drill sounds. Adjusts.</p>
<p>Yes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Does it hurt?</p>
<p>Panels press down. Pressure.</p>
<p>Yes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Where does it hurt?</p>
<p>Grip on his wrist. Tightening.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade

_Does it hurt?_

A drill sounds. Adjusts.

_Yes._

 

_Does it hurt?_

Panels press down. Pressure.

_Yes._

 

_Where does it hurt?_

Grip on his wrist. Tightening. 

 

_Everywhere._

-

He opens his eyes and he’s young; young and in an alley with a golden boy.

He blinks and turns to him. Sometimes, when he sees him, the golden boy is older. Sometimes, the golden boy is broad and large, with thick arms and strong jaw. Sometimes, he’s in a uniform, a faded blue giving way to a bright red.

This time, he’s small. 

He’s in an alley, him and the golden boy. He doesn’t know where, doesn’t know when.

He doesn’t think that that’s important. 

They’re caught in a corner and are surrounded by men. Before he can blink, they charge, fists up, teeth bared. And before he realizes it, he’s moving, fists pounding into faces, knees charging into stomachs.

He turns, and sees the tiny golden boy next to him. He's swinging his small fists, left and right, spinning in circles around the faceless men. It’s like a dance, the aggression marked in his form, the way he pulls in and pushes back. 

So he follows the golden boy’s lead, tries to match his steps as his fist land square onto nameless faces.

When his fist connects, he feels the bones in his hand adjust, feels the seams of his skin open. When he pulls back, his hand is blooming into a wet red.

He thinks he thinks this feels nice.

He thinks he thinks he likes this. 

A blink and they’re gone, all the nameless men. 

He stands in the alley, breathing hard, breathing heavy. He lifts his fists and gazes down at the cracked skin. Sometimes, the hands match, skin shredded on a tan background. 

Today, they do not. 

He turns and looks at the golden boy. He’s hunched, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists in front of him. His clothes are torn, his knees are shredded. 

His golden hair is stained red. 

The golden boy straightens and looks at him. Sometimes, he can make out some of his features. Sometimes, he sees eyes (maybe blue, maybe green). Sometimes, he can make out a face.

The golden boy straightens and looks at him.

Today, he can’t see anything at all.

-

_Does it hurt?_

A drill sounds. Adjusts.

 

_I don’t know_

 

_Does it hurt?_

Panels press down. Pressure.

 

_I don’t know._

 

_Does it hurt?_

Grip on his wrist. Tightening. 

 

_I don’t know._

-

He opens his eyes and he’s on a tree line, lying in snow, watching the golden boy fight a battle.

The golden boy is large this time, large and strong, with a red shield held against him. He has a mask over his eyes. He can’t make out his face. 

He doesn’t know where they are. He doesn’t know when.

He doesn’t think that that’s important. 

The golden boy is in front of him and he’s surrounded by men. A blink and they charge, fists up, teeth bared. And then golden boy is on them, shield swinging, fists bearing down.

It’s like a dance; the golden boy twists and turns, shield ramming into the sides of men, who, one after the other, fall to their knees. With each contact, the shield clangs, loudly echoing through the tree line. 

He watches the golden boy spin and spin, making the bodies drop. He watches and the white snow slowly becomes seeped in red. 

He watches, and the urge to join the golden boy rises in him. It’s a crashing urge, a sudden urge, an urge to feel skin on bone, to feel knuckles smash open.

But he doesn’t go. He can’t go. He was told to wait, told to watch. He was told, so he does.

He doesn’t know who told him that. He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t think that that’s important. 

A blink and all the men are defeated and a golden boy stands amongst them. Behind him, a dark shadow appears, marring the golden boy’s pose. It’s a man he must have missed, coming up from behind.

His hands move without him asking, and grip a rifle that must have always been there. As the shadow approaches the golden boy, he fires.

It’s a spray of pink mist, dotting the pure white palette red. 

He thinks he thinks it looks nice against the snow.

He thinks he thinks he likes this.

The golden boy turns and looks at the man he’s shot down. He turns and looks at the tree line and spots him in the distance. 

The golden boy turns to him, face stained red, and smiles.

-

_Does it hurt?_

A drill sounds. Adjusts.

 

_I don’t know_

 

_Does it hurt?_

Panels press down. Pressure.

 

_I don’t know._

 

_Does it hurt?_

Grip on his wrist. Tightening. 

 

_I don’t know._

-

Sometimes, when he opens his eyes, he sees a golden boy.

Sometimes, he’s small. Sometimes, he’s big. Sometimes, he's too blurry to tell.

He thinks he thinks he likes the golden boy.

But he knows he likes him best when he’s red.  
-

_Does it hurt?_

A drill sounds. Adjusts.

 

_No._

 

_Does it hurt?_

Panels press down. Pressure.

 

_No._

 

_Do you want it to?_

There’s a golden boy behind his lids. He’s in a uniform and a mask. His knuckles are open, wet and bleeding. 

The golden boy looks up at him and smiles.

 

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> You can come talk to me here if you'd like: [x](http://sokovia.tumblr.com/)


End file.
